*Beep, Beep, Beep* Mother the Con-Artist!

I don't usually write a blog post and respond to things that happened right away. I like to give myself some time to chill, get the emotional stuff out and think it over. I'm used to measuring my responses, and being careful with what I say.

FUCK THAT!

I'm pissed. . . beyond pissed. Every freaking truth I've built my life on has been a FUCKING lie! But let me start at the beginning.

My mom, Dani, has shared with me stories about my father. They were great stories, even the ones where she claimed he was a bastard. I was a kid clinging to every word about a person I never met at the time. At first she used the stories as a way to settle the inquiry of a child curious about her father, and why he wasn't around. She told me how they met at Denny's, where she worked for years, and how they flirted. She talked about them selling insurance together, and how happy they were. How he named me Jacqulene, something unique and oh-so-different. Then they turned into a way for her to make me hate him, telling me about his parents hatting us because she came from a broken home. Dani told me how they ran her off, and kicked her out while she was pregnant with me. Things went south, my dad wanted an abortion, but Dani put her foot down and had me anyways. Dani made herself into a hero—my hero. That's what I thought for fucking years (yes I will be using a lot of fucks until I get it out of my system) up until just today. I allowed her to use the, I had you despite the burden, to guilt me into doing anything and everything! Now I find out none of it is true. Not a damn one!

Okay, back up. I'm getting ahead of myself.

After years of believing all this stuff about my father, and allowing Dani to turn it into this him vs us idea, I contacted him the same time I told Dani to fuck off. I sent him a similar letter detailing how my life has been a nightmare, I told him the truth. While he was off playing happy family with his wife and kid, I was suffering. I got a letter back, a very heartfelt letter back. I realized I never gave my father a chance. I met him a few times in my life, like three maybe five times, and each time it was very pleasant. He always seemed like an awesome guy, but I never gave him a chance because Dani always had these stories of him abandoning me. Not wanting me. . . Telling me I wasn't good enough to be apart of his family. I believed what my father said in his letter, because besides the stories Dani fed me, my dad had never been dishonest with me. Never. With the questions I asked as a child, ect, he has always been honest and straight forward with his answers. So when I sent him a letter earlier this month asking for what happened between him and my mom, asking the hard questions about me and if he ever wanted me, I believe everything he has to say in return. He didn't sugarcoat anything, he was straightforward and as far as I can tell, honest.

On the flip-side Dani's lied me to a lot through my life, over big things, little things. I trust her very little, my dad on the other hand has yet to give me a reason not to trust him. This letter I got back, I know it was tough for him to write, mind FUCKING blowing for me.

I know, I shouldn't be too surprised about anything Dani did or might do. My therapist has told me time and again how she's a narcissist and borderline, but until you see it—until you are face to face with the lengths someone is willing to go to—your mind doesn't fully accept it. My mother is a con-artist, a criminal, a lying bitch that doesn't care who she destroys as long as she gets what she wants.

First off, my parents did not meet how she said they did. Yes, they met at Denny's but my father never lived in California like she said. My dad did not flirt with her, in fact his boss flirted with her and hooked them up. He also never sold insurance, like she said. They were never in love. Instead my mother purposely got pregnant to rope my dad into marrying her. They didn't even have a serious relationship, it was a causal thing where they went out once or twice a week. She wanted someone to take care of her, so she mouthed off to girls at his work that she got pregnant on purpose to force him into marriage. My father was scared, and pissed (rightly so) but never confronted her about what his co-workers had told him. He kept this to himself because he didn't want problems between them, he was going to try and make this all work. He was going to take care of his child. She told him she couldn't have an abortion because her uterus was all messed up from an abortion she had before. Dani told me she didn't believe in abortion and never, EVER, has had or considered one. Also, to add some fuel to this fire, she DID go to see about having an abortion with me once she discovered my father wasn't going to marry her. She has used this, I had you despite the burden, guilt thing against me my whole damn life. I felt like a owed her and had to do everything to make her not think twice about having given birth to me. It was my father that didn't believe in abortion, which makes sense because he is really catholic, so this claim of him wanting the abortion never sat well with me.

When their jobs fell through my dad moved them into his parents until they got back on their feet, my dad worked while Dani sat on her ass all day wanting his mother to wait on her hand and foot. Yes, she was pregnant, but Dain always told me stories how she was a hard working single mom. That she worked up until the day before she had me waiting tables, bring in the money. I looked at her as a superhero because of this. Guess what, it's a LIE!

My dad's mom asked him to talk to Dani about it, see if she wouldn't mind at least helping out a little. Like folding clothes while she sat on her ass. Dani got pissed off and attacked my dad over it, things went from bad to worse and Dani wanted to go live with her mom. She wanted to move to California and stay there with family, so my dad bought her a plane ticket and tried to stay in touch with her. Dani, went on her way along with unborn me, AND my father's credit card and SSN. Which she used both to spend a considerable amount of money. This is why I'm certain she didn't work up until my birth, she was living the high life off my dad's credit. She did stay in touch with my dad for awhile, told him that she was giving me up for adoption which is fucking news to me. Do you know how many times I've wished Dani had put me up for adoption? Do you know how awful my childhood was that I wished like hell I lived anywhere else but with her? This adoption thing never came up in all the stories she told me about younger me, and how it was me and her against the world when I was born. Fucking lair!

Then she disappears from my father's radar. She up and vanishes just before giving birth. She didn't send any word to my father, nor told him where she moved to until years later when he got a letter from the California courts for child-support. My father responded by requesting a DNA test, which never bothered me. He had every right to want a DNA, even as a kid I never thought it was a big deal, just a fail-safe. Dani didn't see it that way. She doubled down on her, “your father hates you, you're not good enough, he's an awful man.” Which, as a child I believed. I really don't blame him for wanting a DNA test, even if their relationship wasn't casual better safe than sorry. Cover you ass people! Dani was clever with how she went about all this. We were living in Pennsylvania when she went after my father for child-support, but since I was born in California she was able to use their court system to cover her tracks. My father still couldn't find us, and he didn't have the money for a legal battle to get more information. I understand that, I truly do. I realize the courts and rules are there to protect people, but they really do more harm than good when it comes to father's rights. I see all too often and I don't even work within the legal system. So I don't fault him for any of this. I mean yeah, I'm slightly upset he didn't fight for me, but it's a very small anger. I know the deck was stacked against him. When we did have little meet-ups, my stepfather threatened my father, and Dani would often make time and dates for a meet-up my father couldn't make, then blame him.

So yeah. . . I'm pissed. No, this goes beyond pissed. Never in my life have I wanted to seek out my mother and yell, scream, and demand answers. Honestly, I'm not above driving the two hours to her work, marching into her very public office, and demanding to know the truth. I'm seething, which is out of character for me. Ask anyone that knows me in person, I don't show anger and I don't feel rage but today I do.

The one good thing that has come from this revelation is, I now feel NO attachment to Dani. I still had some guilt about cutting her out of my life, that maybe I was being too extreme. She did do the best she could with the life she was given. Fuck that! If anything I haven't done enough to get her out of my life. Her mental abuse still lingers in my head, but not anymore. I don't believe a damn thing she has ever said. I'm not the lazy loser she has made he out to believe I am. I am not pathetic, and there is nothing wrong with my creative mind. There is something wrong with her. I mean, shit. How do you deal with things like this. . . these insane atomic-bombs of truth?

Why would she do these things? For what fucking reason? Who does things like this?

I still had trouble seeing myself as having an awful childhood, or seeing my mom as a 100% bad guy, but today—now—I'm openly accepting her villainy. My childhood was fucked. . . beyond fucked, and how I turned out as the nice person I am, I have no damn clue. It's a mystery I don't have nor want the answer to. I'm done with Danielle Dabrowski, and her bullshit.

#MotherLies #Conartist #Abuse #ManipulativeMother

~Jax~

Mother On The Outside, Hag On The Inside

I spend a lot of time watching crime documentaries. I know, I know. Both my husband and therapist don't see it as a constructive or good way to spend my time, listening to a bunch of people talk about the awful things that happened to them. Triggers let and right, but I watch them for two reasons. 1. I think they are interesting and educational. 2. It's the way I look for answers my abusers can't or won't give me. Maybe if I understand the mind of people like my mother than I'll know why she did the things she did. So far it hasn't worked.

Anyways, that's not what this post is about.

I'm sitting here watching, Your Worst Nightmare, and it's an episode about a girl that was kidnapped and held for 3 months. In a rare moment there is a happy ending and the girl survives, grows up to have kids of her own and talks out about abuse, ect. On these shows you hear from the victim and the family and friends. This woman's mother was. . . she was amazing. Man, she fought for her daughter every second she was gone. Never gave up on her. I'm not saying that type of person is rare, I believe most mothers would be that way if their child was taken. I've seen it—witnessed it, and it got me thinking. That would never be my mom if I was the one kidnapped.

Okay, yeah. On the surface she would have acted concerned and try to find me, because it puts the spotlight on her. However, outside of the public eye she would have no concern for me—not a single worry. It's always been an act, and I know friends of my family are screaming right now. “No, not Danielle. She loves you. She would be so worried, she would turn over the world looking for her. She's such a wonderful person, so caring. You don't know what you're talking about!”

I get it, I understand where they are coming from because Dani would do those things since it wasn't any good, caring, loving parent would do. Behind closed doors the concern and worry would magically vanish. Once the limelight dimmed she wouldn't give two shits about me or my well being. Like all my thoughts I try to find evidence for or against my opinion, it's how I undo the twisted way of thinking Dani implanted into my head. That's when I started thinking back to one event.

Right after I got married and moved into my own house the bank I was working at got robbed, at gunpoint. I was taken hostage, a gun shoved into my side and stomach, and told to empty all the teller stations. The whole thing took over a minute. Seemed faster than that, but also longer. As I was the closest to the door when the men left, I was the one that had to get the key and lock the door per company procedure for robberies. They don't tell you in bank robbery training that when you do that the men are only feet from you outside, a thin glass door the only thing between the two of you. It was. . . devastating, but ask any of my co-workers or boss who was there, and they will tell you I was stoic. I cried a little, but after that nothing shook me. We processed everything like we were suppose to, talked with the cops and FBI, and then closed down the bank. Our bosses had us contact our family to make sure all these people didn't come swarming to the bank worried about us.

I told my husband very little on the phone (didn't want him to worry about me), started with the most important information. Said I was okay, unharmed and to stay at work. I would have felt so damn guilty if he left work early for me. Then I called my mom because she lived 15 minutes from the bank, and news travels fast in small towns. Dani wasn't worried or anything. She just said, “well you're fine. But stop by after work. We'll all go to the fair to take your mind off things (she wanted me to pay to get everyone in bc she was out of money), and you shouldn't be driving all shook up.”

I agreed because being with family sounded good after what happened. After closing the bank I headed over to my mom's house. I walked into the kitchen and no one even acknowledged me. Dani didn't look up from the salad she was making, by brother barely gave a nod my way when I came in. They knew about what happened. Dani can't keep stuff like that to herself, and it was all over the news about the cops looking for the one suspect who escaped. Still, no one asked if I was alright, what happened, if I needed a drink, or if I even wanted to sit down. Not one word.

It was like they didn't care, but I gave my family the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they didn't know how to start the conversation? Maybe they didn't know what they should or shouldn't ask, so I started talking. I told them, in general, what happened as we moved into the living room—me following them—as if it was a normal day. Dani sat in her red recliner watching TV, never once looking at me, too busy eating and watching NCIS (she loves that show). Halfway through my retelling my brother makes a sound of disbelief, and in all his teenage stupidity asks, “How do you even know the gun was real?”

If I would have had the energy right then—I won't lie—I would have marched across the living room and slapped the shit out of him. Doesn't matter if the damn thing was real or not. Three men, in masks, ran into a bank waving guns in the air. They grabbed me up from the ground and pushed a gun into my side and demanded money. Doesn't matter if the weapon was real or not, the terror was. Of course, because of the build up of emotions I jumped to anger and responded with, “it felt real enough when it was shoved into myself, smart-ass!”

I got yelled at for calling my brother a smart-ass.

Then we all sat there, watching TV like every other day in the life of my family. Not a one of them comforted me, it was very much like no one gave a damn. This big thing just happened in my life, and it meant nothing. I don't know what I was expecting, this was how every major event has always been treated in my life. Well, events that happen to me anyway. My sister had to have her ACL repaired because of a sport injury, and you would have thought she was going in for life threatening surgery. (For the record she continued to do dumb shit her Dr. told her not to and tore it two more times afterwards.)

I sat there with them, watching TV, dazing off and trying not to think about what I lived through—how victimized I felt—how it brought me back to all the times people abused me. I lost it when my husband arrived. I took one look at him and broke-down. In that moment I felt relief, everything let go all at once and I reached for him and cried, damn near hysterical. Between sobs I heard Dani tell my husband, “they took her hostage.” As if excusing my emotional outburst. There—in that moment—in my family home—I was made to feel like a weak-ass loser for breaking down after the bank robbery. It got so much worst in the months to come, I developed full blown PTSD (I had small hints of it all my life). I couldn't sleep without an knife under my side of the mattress, and a lot of times I needed a light on. That fall my husband took a trip with his father over a long weekend. Now, I grew up alone in houses, doing my own thing. I was never frightened until after the robbery. At night I turned on every light in the house, made all the animals sleep in bed with me and even then I couldn't fall asleep. That whole weekend I stayed up all night, and slept during the day. When I would call my mom, Dani, and tell her I was scared she would brush me off. She would say I was being ridiculous, so I felt ridiculous. My world was falling apart, and all I felt was utter shame about it. That's when I started having panic-attacks.

It got near impossible for me to get up to go to work, I didn't want to leave the house and everyone scared me. All this came to a head a few years later when my brother and sister accused me of awful things from when we were little. That was it, I reached my damn limit and that October my husband came home to find me passed out, photos all over the place that were burned and cut into pieces, my arms covered in blood and cuts. My breaking point had been reached.

When I told my mom about my breakdown (over a month later) she rolled her eyes at me, and said I was nuts. That I needed to pull myself together. When I tried different things to fight my depression she criticized me for it.

So that mother on the show, in my mind, is the most wonderful woman ever. That level of support and dedication to her daughter. . . I can't fathom that. To me it's the most foreign concept in the world. Since the robbery and my breakdown I've come a long way, there are a lot more good days than bad. My husband is here with me, giving his support in every way imaginable, but I still get to the live with the fact that my mother—the women that gave birth to me—who said it was always us against the world—whom society tells us to warship as the essence of our lives—cares more about a salad and NCIS than her daughter after a violent crime is committed against her. How do you live with that? How do you go day to day and not suffer seeing people having a relationship you can NEVER have, all because of the selfishness of one person?

It's where I struggle most. I don't miss my mom, I miss a child's fantasy of a mom or even a father. I grew up with neither.

#ViolentCrime #Survivor #MothersNeeds #Abuse #Depression #PTSD

~Jax~

Why I Hate Mommy

I have been hiding, old habit. But there is more to it than me avoiding, I got sick of people who are friends with my family—who know my mother, telling me I need to forgive and forget. Or that my mother had her reasons for doing what she did in the past, even going as far as to blame her own past trauma for her behavior toward me. It's all bullshit.

Yes, forgiveness does bring you peace from the trauma/past, but you're not forgiving the person who did you wrong. You're forgiving yourself. Abuse victims play the blame game, we're very good at it, and the #1 person we blame is ourselves. Forgiveness of the past is for the victim, not the abuser, and forgetting is a band-aid. Let me tell you, when that bastard comes off in hurts. It's why people end up having breakdowns, or hang ups. It's why a victim's world crumbles while they smile and bare it. As for Dani, my mother, having her reasons? I would really really like to know what they are, because I can't come up with any good reasons—not even a bad ones—for allowing my daughter's sexual abuser back into the house. I truly can't. Whatever the reason, it doesn't justify her actions, and poor parenting doesn't even touch it. Nor does her childhood traumas. I've lived through a lot. When I reached 15 I became exhausted by life, I wanted it to be over. Too many things had happened, but do you see me being an asshole? Am I out there inflecting the same thing onto other people?

NO! And there is a lot of victims out there that never become an abuser. Most victims shy away and hide from everything, we don't take it out on other people. We already feel like enough of a burden, why spread the hurt?

These reasons are weak, at best, and I got tired of explaining myself. I shouldn't have to defend myself when I say my childhood was shit—it was the stuff of nightmares—but here we are. Instead of telling people in private messages and so on, I figure, why not make a post? It gets most of it out in the air, and if I still need to defend my choices, my feelings, and the fact I'm a victim. Well then just fluff-off. Because you are part of the problem, not just for me but people like me. People who have fought and survived too many battles, we don't need another one.

Why I hate mommy (I felt a list would be easier and more to the point).:

~ My earliest memories are of crappy by the night motel rooms, sleeping on the floor at the foot of the bed, while Dani gave her boyfriends blowjobs. I wasn't even in kindergarten. Wrecked parking-lots with low-lives on every corner, filled with broken bottles and sometimes syringes, was how I remember my life up till 1^st grade.

~ I have attended over 13 schools in my life, between kindergarten and 12^th grade. In the beginning it wasn't unusual for me to start the year at one school and finish at another. I never had friends longer than two years. My education suffered, my reading skills the most. Dani simply labeled me as learning disabled, and often said I was slow and in subtle ways (at least at first) that I was stupid.

~ Dani, her friends, and boyfriends loved to party. I was at many of these parties that always resembled a college party. Complete with cases of beer, a house full of smoke (cigarettes), and a lot of sexual immature pranks. (How I'm not completely messed up is beyond me.)

~ Dani took me away from my Nana and the rest of the family. I lived so close to my cousins when I lived with my Nana. I had family—community—and I didn't want to leave, but she pulled me away kicking and screaming. All of which for childish reasons (my family didn't like her boyfriend).

~ She brought an abusive sexual predator into my life, and I lived in fear for the rest of my life. My stepfather sexually, verbally, and physically abused me. I feared him—I still fear him. I isolated myself in my room, and when she kicked him out for cheating on her I thought life would get better. It didn't. He still controlled her, and by extension, me.

~ Dani used me as her emotional support. I was a child, and she used me to get through all her rough patches. A child. I didn't know what the hell was going on, but it felt good to be needed. Only problem was the second my brother and sister returned from visiting their father (my stepfather) she didn't need or want me anymore. I was pushed aside and left alone.

~ She abused me, verbally, emotionally, and neglected all my needs. The physical stuff was bad, being grabbed by my arms, jerked around, slapped across the face. . . poked. But the emotional stuff hits far deeper. She often asked me “Why are you so damn stupid.” I actually started to believe I was stupid.

~ She crushed every dream I ever had. From becoming a writer to wanting to work for NASA, she shot them all down. Telling me I was too lazy, too stupid, that my grades sucked, that I sucked. I had too much of a disability. I wasn't smart or pretty. By the time college came I wanted to be a cop so I could get shot and never have to live long enough to acknowledge how much of a failure I was.

~ Her boyfriend sexually assaulted me (someone besides my stepfather). We reported it, he was arrested, and we went to court. She talked me out of testifying—rather she guilted me out of it. He walked, and a few months later he was back spending the night two doors down from my bedroom.

~ She took every penny ever stored away for my college, or given to me on birthdays, graduation, ect and spent it on bills she let pile up while she spent money on herself or my brother and sister.

~ She brainwashed me into thinking she was the sun, the moon, and the stars when in reality she was an ugly hag training a slave. She allowed my brother and sister to abuse me as well, and often labeled me the outcast in the family.

~ I was guilted into not taking part in school programs or sports. While I played softball, it was the only thing I was allowed to do. For those few months of softball season every year all I heard was bitching, yelling, and abusive digs thrown my way. But I needed to play softball, it was all I really had.

~ She shamed me for being creative. She hated that I loved to draw, thought it was a waste of time. Dani wanted me to go to a real college, told me I would never make money in the art world. When I never succeeded in traditional school she criticized me, called me stupid. After I finally worked up the courage to apply to art school and got accepted, Dani dumped all the college paperwork, taxes, finical aid on me. Up till that point she had handled all of that, since I was no longer doing what she wanted she left me high and dry. I had to do a crash course without any help.

~ She constantly competed with me. I never understood why, but if someone at the church or school found out I did artwork and asked me to create something for them. She would also create something, and present only her work, saying that I was too lazy to get to it. That hers' was better. Same with cooking, sewing, anything. . . everything.

If these reasons are not enough to understand why I hold a deep anger for Dani, my mother, then what is? What level of depravity must she reach before people start seeing her for the awful, sick person she is? I don't care if there are people out there whom choose not to believe what I'm saying about her, and I don't care if you still want to remain friends with her. That's your choice, but victim shaming me—calling into question my emotions—or devaluing the things I've lived through because of that piece of shit, is not going to fly.

And before people start talking about, “Don't be angry. . . free yourself by releasing it and forgive.” I have to feel it first. No one can process emotions, heal, and come out the other side without first feeling all the things they avoided before. I have no doubt one day when I think of Dani I won't be pissed off. I will not longer feel the deep pain of rejection from the woman that gave birth to me. I won't want to put my fist through a wall when I remember how she threw things at me, bruised my body, and handed me over to her boyfriends. That's my goal, to glance back into my past and not feel devastated by every single memory. Until then I need to feel the anger, rage is healthy and needed. It gives me strength to move on when all I want to do is stand still in emotional anguish.

To those who think Dani's an angel, a woman who helps everyone and puts her self before anothers. Believe what you want, but here's the truth. This is why I hate her, and why—no matter the amount of time that passes or the healing I do—will I ever. . . EVER, allow her back into my life.

#TraumaWarrior #Abuse #Victim #WhyIHateMommy #BadParent #BadMother #StopShamming

~Jax~